Pitter-Patter of Little Feet
by smos
Summary: For him, she would do the impossible. Even if it meant defying logic and shaking the very foundations on which the magical world thrived upon.
1. Prologue - Mother Goose

_**Pitter-Patter of Little Feet**_

_**Disclaimer:**__ I don't own Harry Potter or any of its characters. __The characters and concepts used in any of my works of fanfiction are owned by their respective creators. No profit of any kind other than the satisfaction of being able to borrow and play with well-loved characters is being made in the making of this story. Anything that is familiar is purely coincidental. _

_**Author's Notes: **__Hello, readers! First of all, let me begin by saying that I've been reading Harry Potter fan fiction for some years now (I'm an absolute fan, although I haven't read all of the books), but I've never had the guts to write a story of my own until now, for fear of not doing the story that took the world by storm any justice. That, and I was admittedly a bit apprehensive about writing a fic that is set in an actual place (and not a made up one as is often the case in Naruto), with their own vocabulary and slang. That said, I will say here and now that I'm more familiar with American English than the British counterpart of the language, and while I did try and will continue to try to make this as British as I possibly can, I can't promise anything. You have been forewarned. _

_Finally, I just want to point out that this story ignores the Epilogue, and some other aspects in canon may be ignored as well. I'm not very good at sticking to canon, anyway. Just the same, I really hope you like it!_

_Enjoy!_

_**.:oOo:.**_

_Prologue – Mother Goose_

_**.:oOo:.**_

**12 Midnight, 21****st**** March 2009**

**Saturday, Spring Equinox**

**The Forbidden Forest, Scotland**

Few people would agree but there was beauty to behold in the Forbidden Forest, particularly on a night when magic was at its most potent. The moon was high in the sky, full and luminous; a beautiful ball of light that cast down soothing silver beams to everything within its reach, lending an otherworldly glow to every straining branch, every sprouting leaf, every growing shrub littered across the woodland. Not a wisp of cloud in the sky dared to obstruct the wondrous view of the stars as they twinkled from above, winking down at the onlookers by the million, the Milky Way and many of its constellations on display. The midnight air was cool, so rife with the raw energy of the earth that it fairly glowed in soft lights of yellow and green and blue and red in thick blankets, weaving through the forest floor in swaying, shimmering rivers, through roots and trunks in a graceful display of nature's magical beauty. It was the kind of magic that the creatures that called the enchanted forest home recognized on the most basic of levels—one that they reveled in and celebrated with their very being.

It was a night of mystery, of harmony.

Of _magic_.

"Mummy, da—da wights are tickwing my skin," a little boy giggled from where he sat upon his mother's lap, laughingly looking at the floating essence of magic around them as he pressed himself closer to her comforting embrace as if to escape its feather light, shining caresses. "Da wights are tickwing me."

"The lights are tickling you?" His mother clarified from behind him.

"Yeah," he nodded, giggling.

"Well, that's because those lights are alive," came his mother's conspiratorial whisper near his ear, a gentle smile gracing her lips, wrapping herself around him as they gaze out at the bright spectacle before them, cuddling him teasingly, "with_ magic_."

At the mention of a word he recognized, the toddler turned to look at her, a curious glint radiating from his eyes through the psychedelic swirls of colours that was reflected in its deep hazel depths. "Magic? Wike wights that—that—that…Wights…wights from wands?"

"That's right," the woman averred, her tone, though soft, was high with praise. "What a smart little boy you are."

Her son pouted sourly at her description of him. "I'm not wittwe. I'm big, wike daddy."

Mummy chuckled and amended her earlier error, enfolding her arms more securely about him. "Of course, you are." She rubbed their noses together playfully. "Big and fierce. Like a lion."

"Wike daddy!" The little lad beamed.

"Like daddy."

Then he paused, a little frown puckering his brow like it always did when he was thinking hard about something, his head tilting to the side inquisitively. "Mummy, where's daddy?"

"Well," Raising a hand to sweep her knuckles gently against his upturned cheek, she answered the innocuous question with a solemnity she had been avoiding since they had arrived at the forest two days ago, her smile waning at the edges, a detail that went unheeded by her little infant, "he's not here right now, love. But you shall see him again soon. I promise."

"Oh." For a moment, the little boy merely regarded his mum seriously, looking for all the world like he understood what was beneath the surface of her words. Fortunately, it was not the case, as the eager grin that suddenly encompassed his babyish features told of the youthful innocence he still carried, as yet unmarred by the taint of the world. "Okay. When he comes back, can I…can…Daddy and I can pway?"

The mother gave an answering grin. "Of course, honey. I'm sure he'd love to."

"Okay," he acquiesced, nodding his satisfaction.

Smiling her endearment at his antics, the woman looked upon her son's boyish visage, so innocent and so full of joy, and a rush of love and affection washed over her. This was how she wanted to remember him, happy and radiant, filled with life and laughter. He was her reason for living, for her sacrifice, the very reason she carried on each day with hope and love and magic in her heart, in her very essence. For him, she would do the impossible. Overwhelmed by her sudden bout of emotions—emotions she had tried to get a handle on for what seemed like a lifetime—she ran a hand through his unruly mop of dark curly hair, smoothing it back, and hugged him to her fiercely, trying to convey her feelings in the best way she knew how. "I love you, my little lion."

"I wove you, too, Mummy," came the child's automatic response, his tiny arms going around to themselves around his parent's neck instinctively, unconsciously finding comfort in the warmth of her embrace as he rested his head against her shoulder, burying his head into her wealth of curly hair. He yawned.

Taking her cue, the young mother pulled back and settled her baby more comfortably, leaning back against the trunk of the sturdy tree they sat under so he could rest his head easily on her chest, arranging him into the cradle of her arms. "Sleep," she crooned.

"Mummy?"

"Hmm…?" she hummed in query as she started to rock him to sleep, a lilting melody on her lips.

"The wights…" he heaved out a great yawn once more, and he squirmed to find a better, more acceptable position, squinting up at her drowsily, "…the wights stiw tickwe."

"Shhhh…" she soothed.

Finally, his eyes fell shut and then there were just the familiar strains of a wordless lullaby. The droning tune filtered into the peace of the night, melding with the forest's nocturnal orchestra, the beams of magic streaming through and fro and the rustling leaves dancing with the whistling breeze. From a distance, owls hooted and large spiders scurried reveling in their hunt for sustenance. Creatures of the enchanted forest fluttered about their business, soaking in the essence of tangible magic. In the turmoil that ravaged the world, life at the Forbidden Forest continued. It continued because it still could. Because it was natural.

_Not for long_, she thought grimly.

If she didn't succeed, all that would be left would be chaos and devastation. All forms of life and all that was natural would cease to exist. It was a future, now a true inevitability, that she would protect her son from. Even if it meant defying logic and shaking the very foundations with which the magical world thrived upon.

Moments later, when the babe was fast asleep and his breaths as deep as his dreams, the rhythmic sound of clopping hooves permeated through the bubble of timeless serenity that had settled upon mother and child. A centaur emerged from the darkness, his strides confident and sure, his posture as regal and proud as his race. He stopped before her and tipped his head to her politely.

"It is time."

She looked up at the tall beast standing before her, his shock of white hair shining a silver gleam under the bright kiss of moonlight. "Thank you, Firenze. You don't know how much this this means to me."

"It is a common fate that we wish to avoid, and in that we are of kindred hearts. Even my colony recognizes that to be the truth." Firenze declared matter-of-factly. His brilliant blue eyes pierced her with its luminosity. "It is you to whom we should express our gratitude. Your sacrifice will not be forgotten."

She smiled up at him wryly. "We haven't succeeded yet, Professor."

"What the stars have writ in the heavens only serve as a guide, Hermione. We may call it fate, but there is also something to be said about free will."

She looked down at the babe in the cradle of her arms, the gravity in his words a reminder of what was to take place. "Then I hope to all the gods that it is to our favor." Hermione murmured quietly, dolefully.

"We can only hope. Are you ready?"

She nodded, never taking her eyes off her drowsing son. _Mummy loves you, my little lion._

"I am."

_Remember that._

_**.:oOo:.**_


	2. Chapter One - Hickory, Dickory, Dock

_**Pitter-Patter of Little Feet**_

_**.:oOo:.**_

_Chapter One – Hickory, Dickory, Dock_

_**.:oOo:.**_

**12:30 AM, 21****st**** March 2003**

**Friday, Spring Equinox**

**Churchill Gardens, Pimlico, London**

She was restless. She didn't know why, but she was. Like there was an annoying itch she couldn't scratch just beneath the surface of her skin, beyond her reach, beyond relief. It was agitating; so much so that it was driving her to distraction and making her feel out of sorts, clammy and disjointed. The goose flesh that ran down the length of her arms seemed to be telling her that something was wrong, and the fine hairs prickling at the nape of her neck nagged at her that there was something she missed. Something she _needed_. Something she…she…

Hermione Granger blew out a breath in building frustration, running a shaking hand through the tangled curls fluttering in a flurry behind her, bouncing in springy ringlets to her frenzied pacing. What made it even more distressing was that she couldn't even seem to pinpoint where her agitation—this, this sudden _desire_ to _do something_—to retrieve, to have, to _do—to—to—_she didn't know!—came from. She didn't know _why_, she didn't even know _what_ she should be doing! She only knew that she _had to_. She just had to!

_Had to, what?_ She thought furiously, the plush carpet under her bare feet beginning to wear, her simple periwinkle nightgown whipping about her calves restlessly, her back and forth pace never faltering. A check and re-check of her To-Do lists for the next two weeks, and then for the next month, having counted off a number of things on it already, had given her no relief from her—from this indefinable anxiety she was feeling, this madness.

_What was wrong with her?_ She'd never been this wound up since the war, and even then she looked the perfect picture of serenity compared to how frazzled and jittery she was now. She felt so out of control, so out of touch with herself, that it was enough to make her uneasy. Even her magic was responding to her disquiet in erratic waves of bubbling energy, sizzling around her like static.

Just then, for no apparent reason, her anxiousness swelled, the restiveness she felt mounting, causing her heart to race at a rapid rate and cold sweat to profusely suffuse her skin. The magic leaking out of her thickened, coalesced before crackling audibly, rumbling out like rolling thunder.

Hermione inhaled sharply, looking at the air around her with apprehension creasing her feminine features. Her agitation grew, becoming tangible, pulsating…

Her magic roiled unsteadily, almost violently.

Crookshanks yowled in displeasure.

_Crookshanks! _Hermione gasp and reared back in surprise as if snapped out of a daze, whipping her head to the right just in time to see her aging familiar dart under the plump pillows thrown haphazardly across her queen-sized bed in a vain attempt to shield himself from the threatening atmosphere simmering around the bedroom.

_Merlin_, just _what_ in heaven's name was _happening_?

This was getting completely out of hand. Whatever was causing her to become so distraught was affecting her magic to dangerous levels.

_Easy, Hermione, easy. _Shaken, she forced herself to release a tremulous breath, trying valiantly to settle herself before she distressed her cat into a frenzy, too.

Padding silently on bare feet towards the rumpled bed, she climbed into it and reached for the agitated cat, pulled him onto her lap and ran her fingers through his downy fur soothingly.

"I'm sorry, Crooks," she murmured quietly despite the fact that she lived alone, crooning placating words to the edgy feline until he was purring contentedly under her stroking hands. She smiled, endeared.

Thankfully, it seemed like it was just what she needed; the faint rumbling the demanding half-Kneazle was pleasurably emitting casting a calming effect on her as well, the tension in her muscles easing enough for her to relax against the lush softness of her bedspread. Taking advantage the momentary respite she was somehow granted, Hermione urged herself to concentrate on breathing evenly, allowing herself to settle more comfortably on the bed, willing her heart to sync its beating to her cat's lazy vibrations.

The irregular flow of magic weaved to a steady halt, floating like the gently cresting waves of the ocean after a furious storm.

She sighed in relief, feeling suddenly exhausted to the marrow of her bones, drained. She was still a little wound up, though, still slightly too taut at the edges to truly give herself over to her sudden fatigue, but at least she could breathe easier now.

Which was good.

Breathing easier meant she could think, and think clearly at that—something she hadn't been able to do for the last half-hour or so now since she'd been woken up from a rather peaceful slumber by the debilitating feeling of…of _needing_, _seeking…_of _completing_…of something completely inexplicable filling her very being. A feeling that had escalated with each second she stayed in bed in mounting confusion, her prolonged inaction becoming almost agonising.

_Maybe it was the stress, _she thought, troubled, her eyes drifting shut as she propped herself against a pillow, unwilling to give in to another…breakdown? She ran a trembling hand through her hair, snagging against the wiry curls halfway through._ Or jetlag._

But, no. She knew that wasn't it, and she couldn't lie to herself no matter how much she wished it were true. She couldn't chalk it up to jetlag because she'd been back in England a little over a week already; surely it was enough time to get used to the time difference there was between London and Papua New Guinea. And she knew it couldn't be due to stress, either, because ever since her arrival, Kingsley had been adamant that she take the fortnight off, insisting that she get herself settled down first before she threw herself back into the hectic fray that was the Department of International Magical Cooperation again.

So what was _wrong_ with her?

She didn't know.

She didn't know but she could think of no other logical explanation, no matter how hard she tried, that would sufficiently justify what had just occurred—what was still occurring to her.

Hermione frowned, deeply disturbed by her experience, her mind quickly flashing through the week since her return: her arrival after the long aeroplane ride with Terry, (who had managed to persuade her into boarding one, not having ridden one himself yet and thought it was his chance to see and experience some of the "Muggle innovations" he'd heard so much about) whose excitement during the whole ordeal was as palpable as a five-year-old in a sweets shop, had worn on her nerves; the brief visit with her parents, who'd fussed over her endlessly like they were wont to do; moving into the lovely new flat Susan had kindly leased on her behalf; the welcoming committee and the subsequent gatherings that followed (both the formal—which consisted of her colleagues at the Ministry—and the informal ones—which had mostly consisted of a few friends) in order to commemorate her homecoming after three years of being away; the flurry of reporters clamouring after her, her awkward (and separate; which meant double the strain) reunions with Harry and Ron, her nasty run-in with Ginny Weasley…

This time, a tired sigh escaped her dry, chapped lips, the weary hand entangled in her hair slipping to her temple, massaging a fore and middle finger into the spot where she could feel an unwanted migraine beginning to build in pounding cruelty.

_Perhaps it was stress, after all._ _Not the physical kind, but certainly of the emotional variety._ Looking back on it now, she marvelled at her own fortitude. Merlin only knew how trying these last few days had been for her; it was almost enough to make her want to take another unpleasant and discomfiting 18-hour or so flight on an electronically operated hunk of metal traveling at an alarming speed through space while it was unreliably suspended a few hundred feet in the air.

She winced at the reminder. God, that had almost been worse than riding a broom. Almost. It had still been awful though.

_Circe, it _had _been a busy week_.

Before she could delve further into her thoughts, however, a gentle tapping staccato against her bay windows startled Hermione out of her thoughts. Curiously, she turned to see a ruffled looking barn owl flapping outside the porthole, a roll of parchment tied to one of its talons with a red ribbon. Setting her drowsing cat on the bed, she moved to let the night messenger fly in. Only when the owl had found itself a satisfactory perch on top of her dresser and stuck its leg out to her dutifully did she reach for the missive it delivered, confusion already marring her brow.

While it was not an uncommon occurrence for a witch to have an owl fly to her home bearing a letter or other, Hermione usually didn't get owls so late in the night it was actually early the next morning already, if one wanted to be technical. A closer inspection also told her that the bird in question was not a Ministry issued one. Curious, that.

Maybe it was Luna, asking her to go Umgubular Slashkilter hunting with her again…or something…

Wrinkling her nose at the thought, she began to unfurl her note. The strange things that woman got up to. Although, if it was an invitation from Luna, Hermione thought she just might take her up on her offer; it would, after all, be a welcome distraction from her puzzling predicament.

_Anything_ would be a welcome distraction from her unfathomable anxiety at this point.

It wasn't from Luna, though.

It was from Minerva.

A finely shaped eyebrow rose. Now this was even more curious than receiving odd requests from her eccentric friend.

The note looked to be brief and succinct.

She read:

_Dear Hermione,_

_I'm terribly sorry for this inconvenience. I know that we had previously agreed to meet until this Sunday for tea, but I'm afraid there is a matter of grave importance that concerns you. Please come as soon as you are able; the sooner the better. _

_I will leave the Floo open to your arrival. _

_Minerva_

Hermione stared at her mentor and friend's usual elegant script scrawled across the crisp parchment in her hands, a single phrase sticking out more than the rest.

_The sooner the better._

The elderly woman's message could not be any clearer. She wanted Hermione to Floo to Hogwarts _now._

Her brow furrowed, head tilting inquisitively to the side.

_A matter of grave importance._ What could be so important that she couldn't wait a more acceptable hour in the morning for them to meet? While there had been instances where she and the older witch had discussed between them a possibility of working on a project or other together, they had never really come around to specifying what that it would be yet. And even then, it would be a pursuit that was purely for educational entertainment.

Her teeth scraped along her bottom lip worriedly. Knowing Minerva, who was a great abider of propriety, it was probably urgent enough for her to see it fit to send an Owl at this ungodly hour. Hermione could do no other but oblige. Besides, she had wanted a distraction, hadn't she?

She glanced back at her unmade bed, the peach blankets thrown carelessly aside when she'd jumped out of it in a fit of nerves, her familiar curled up in a peaceful orange ball of fur in the middle of it. Well, it wasn't like she could go back to sleep any time soon anyway.

_Best get to it, then_.

_**.:oOo:.**_

**2:15 AM, 21****st**** March 2003**

**Friday, Spring Equinox**

**Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, Scotland**

A few minutes later, she was off.

The Floo ride to Hogwarts had been dizzying and brief, but an elated smile didn't fail to light up Hermione's slightly worn features—she could do nothing about the dark circles under her eyes, but she was pleased that the wrestling match she had with her hair had been successful at least, managing to tame it enough to stuff it in a practical bun at the base of her head—when she saw the delicate old woman standing in the middle of the circular room. Stepping through the fireplace, she took a moment to brush the soot from her hastily donned robes before she strode toward her former professor with her arms outstretched.

"Minerva," she greeted warmly with a bright smile, grasping the woman's feeble hands in familiarity and friendship, genuinely pleased to be reunited with the woman who had not only become her friend and loyal confidant these last few years, but who had also come to be like family to her. Indeed, Hermione now thought of the formidable headmistress as more of a doting aunt rather than the dignified figure of stature most people saw her to be. "It's wonderful to see you again."

And it truly was.

The years after the war with Voldemort, though fraught with grief and devastation, had forged a bond between the two witches that only grew with time. Shortly after getting a post at the Ministry, the two of them had met once every week to have tea together up until Hermione's departure. Those meetings had been the foundation of their new found friendship, and later proved to be a balm to both women, consoling each other with words of empathy and honesty, and helping each other cope with the post-war trauma that everyone suffered in their long stretches of comfortable silence. And although there had been physical distance between them in the last few years, their hearts could not be any closer, the constant exchange of confidences through pages and pages of thoroughly descriptive letters free flowing between them.

"Hello, Hermione. It's wonderful to see you again, as well, dear," returned the much respected Headmistress of Hogwarts with equal sincerity in her voice, obvious affection for the young woman shining through her eyes—aged eyes of jade that, though were warm and welcoming, were also crinkled at the corners with unease. "Thank you for coming on such short notice. I know you're probably still settling back in."

"Oh, it's no trouble at all, Minerva," the other witch explained with a casual shrug. "It was just as well. I couldn't seem to get some sleep, anyway." She looked at the most admirable woman she had ever known in her life fondly, suddenly noting the tight knot of skin clumped on her stern brow and how it only seemed to emphasise the wrinkles around her aging face, her small smile pursed into a thin, white line, making her look every bit of her sixty-eight years of age. It was then that her smile turned into a bemused, upturned one. Her own eyebrows knitted together worriedly. "Minerva, is everything all right?"

The professor gazed back at her uncertainly; the hands, dry and already frail with age, holding hers tightened minutely, the lines that dominated the femininely patrician features deepening, becoming more prominent. "I'm not quite sure, Hermione," she answered honestly, looking very disconcerted in that knowledge. Or the lack, thereof. "In truth, I only summoned you here at Firenze's request."

Finely shaped eyebrows, previously scrunched up in bafflement, flew up in surprise. "_Professor_ Firenze?" _The centaur?_

"The very same," the Headmistress affirmed gravely, eyes solemn and unsettled.

Hermione blinked, finding herself confused for the second time that night.

Now that…was unexpected.

"But…Why?"

What could Firenze want with _her_, of all people? Having never taken Divination during her time at Hogwarts when he'd been professor, there had been very little substantial interaction, if any at all, between them. In fact, if she recalled correctly, it was Harry to whom the noble sentient beast often gravitated to. She didn't even know he knew her name…

Minerva, however, could only shake her head in answer. "I cannot say. All I know is that they wish to speak with you; no one else."

_Why me,_ was her first thought, but something in her sentence caught her attention, and gave her pause. "_They_? As in his_ colony_?"

"I'm afraid so," came the grave reply, curt in its gravity.

Hermione's jaw dropped, her agape expression conveying all the shock she needed to exhibit plain as day. _What?_ "But…but why?" she could only ask again, her brows once again drawing together—something she had been doing all night; it was quickly becoming a permanent fixture. She was clearly at a loss, something she had never been for quite some time now and she absolutely hated the feeling.

_What on earth could centaurs want with _me_?_ She had certainly never interacted with any these last few years. Veelas, yes, when she'd been in France. Some giants, and even a few vampires in Romania and nymphs in Greece, but apart from her fifth year and at the Final Battle five years ago, she hadn't even been in close proximity with a half-man, half-horse beast.

Suffice it to say, she absolutely didn't know what to think.

After the war, the centaurs had returned to their territory at the Forbidden Forest, Professor Firenze with them, and although it was reported that they had come to resent humans less since then, they had still made it a point to avoid human contact. But now she was, apparently, being called at their _special request, _and it was nothing if not extraordinary.

Alarmingly so, if Hermione had to say so herself, _especially when one took into account the fact that it wasn't just one centaur asking for you but an entire colony of it._ Although, she supposed she would be able to understand if it was just the former Divination professor looking for her. Centaurs were, after all, drawn to new knowledge, and she could admit without hubris that she had become adequately knowledgeable throughout her travels. The research she did with her team for the Department of International Magical Cooperation had ensured that she become quite well-versed in a wide variety of areas, including the most obscure ones out there. She also knew for a fact that Firenze had been the most open-minded one of his kind, his pro-human beliefs courageous and forward. A talk with him would have been no problem to her at all as she herself could understand the allure of seeking and acquiring information from those who had it.

Facing a whole colony of volatile beasts, however, was quite another thing entirely.

Somehow, she doubted it was her well-travelled appeal that drove them to ask for her.

_But if it wasn't that, then what did?_

"Firenze has given me his word that they wish you no harm." the old professor provided helpfully, a protective undertone winding through her lilting accent, and though Minerva's words were meant to comfort, there was unmistakable concern in her sharp, jade pools.

"Right. Of course." Hermione nodded with more than a little doubt, even when she acknowledged her former Head of House's assurance. She smiled slightly, the uplifted corners tinged with unabated bemusement. "Thank you, Minerva."

The older witch seemed to hesitate for a second, before she nodded her acquiescence. "Very well, then. Come along, dear. They're waiting for you at the Entrance Hall."

Hermione could understand Minerva's hesitation. Both of them knew that whatever it was the prideful half-men wanted, it had to be something terribly important for them to come out in the open like that.

_Just like how terribly important the Battle of Hogwarts had been, as well, when they came charging._

But even with that thought in mind, Hermione could not help the unravelling trepidation that had never really left her from stirring. Worrying her bottom lip apprehensively, she resigned herself to following the Headmistress out of her office, down the spiral staircase, and out past the stone gargoyle, leaving the snoozing portraits of headmasters and headmistresses of times past behind.

_**.:oOo:.**_

Walking through the empty corridors of Hogwarts again was like taking an unwanted stroll down Memory Lane, memories of long past assaulting her with nostalgia, poignant and bittersweet. Flashes of a young girl with untameable curly hair running around in a constant flurry of school work and banding together with two other teenaged boys against all the odds marked every cornerstone of the castle. Memories of innocence, of pain, of friendship, etched in every cobblestone, the lingering whispers of laughter and tears stark against the resonant echoes of her footfalls.

A small, fond smile graced her lips. Sad as it was, it was a thing of the past now. _They_ were a thing of the past now. It was a fact that she had learned to accept after the irreparable fallout that had happened some three or so years ago. They'd all done some growing up since then, she was sure, making their own marks in the world, but those memories she'd always cherish, she knew.

Sighing, Hermione shook her head against the sudden bout of melancholy she felt and tried to turn her thoughts to the place that had been her home for the better part of six years, knowing full well that she didn't need the added stress right now; the restlessness she felt and the roiling of her magic may have mellowed since she'd arrived at the school, but it was still there, simmering under the surface. The last thing she wanted was to get accidental bouts of magic at twenty-four, after all. To lose control of her magic after everything she'd worked so hard to achieve would just be embarrassing.

_In any case_, she thought in a pointed effort to steer her thoughts to the direction she wanted it to go, the trip down to the castle grounds was brisk and silent, but it was enough for her to see that the cavernous bastion that was Hogwarts had changed little since she'd been there, fighting for her life with all the others that had sided with the Light. Even when it had been rebuilt in the wake of the Final Battle's destruction, every pillar, every battlement had been restored to where it had once been, returned to its rightful place.

Minerva had been quite unstoppable during the school's reconstruction, forging on with a steel determination Hermione had come to admire. She had been resolved to restore the school to its former glory in as little time as it could, and with the help of willing volunteers and, of course, a fancy bit of magic, it had only taken under six months for the school to be functional again, ready to receive its magical learners with open arms.

When the large oak doors to the Entrance Hall came into view, Hermione braved a glance at the proud headmistress walking stiffly beside her, suddenly feeling more than a little discomfited by the silence that enveloped them both—a silence that was quite rare between them—even with the knowledge that there was nothing they could say to each other that would be able to alleviate the severity of the situation, whatever it was. None of them knew what to expect from the centaurs, and given that they were both the sort of people who revelled in knowledge and actually found comfort in it, mincing words would only serve to further agitate them both.

_No matter. I'll find out soon enough_.

Soon, however, was apparently _too _soon, for it was a mere moment later that she saw the platoon of centaurs waiting patiently for her. She felt her mouth dry. There were at least a dozen of them, standing in front of grand entrance of the castle in straight and proud attention.

Her steps faltered in uncertainty, but she forced her feet forward, one step after the other. _I can do this_, she thought, intimidated beyond belief at the sight of the regal creatures of the Forbidden Forest, a feeling that only seemed to intensify when, upon sensing her approach, different pairs of startlingly bright eyes settled on her with such unwavering intensity.

Unsurprisingly, it was Firenze who stepped forward to greet her, a bow of respect on the slight tilt of his head. "Hermione Granger," he greeted solemnly, looking down at her with brilliant blue eyes, his shock of white only seeming to emphasise its luminosity.

"Thank you for coming to see us," another centaur spoke, gliding imperiously towards her, his shoulders thrown back proudly. Hermione could only look up at him in barely disguised awe. She could only surmise that he was the colony's leader, and he was by far the most intimidating thing she had ever seen in her life; authoritative in his sure gait, his expression as smooth and unreadable as granite. He looked upon her with glittering eyes of coal. "I am called Magorian. I am the leader of this colony."

Pulling herself together, the smaller witch cleared her throat in an effort to exude the professional persona she often displayed at work, drawing upon the considerable diplomatic skills she had acquired when dealing with sentient creatures not of her race. She returned the introductions with a polite bob of her head. "Good evening to you all. I must admit that I am surprised to be summoned so late by your colony, Magorian. Headmistress McGonagall mentioned that you wished to speak with me of something important."

Magorian nodded in affirmation. "We know that it is customary for humans to be asleep at this time of night, but it could not wait." The centaur then passed a glance round his kind, all of them standing as stoic and as immovable as mountains, before his steady black gaze fixed upon her once more, his luminous eyes glowing like newly polished onyx. "We come to you at the request of our brethren from a time that which will be, to deliver to you what the stars have writ to be re-written."

Eyebrows furrowing in punctuation to the incomprehension that was plastered evidently across her face, she asked hesitantly, "Your…brethren?" She didn't know any other centaur but Firenze. She—

She paused.

_Our brethren from a time that which will be._

Her eyes widened in sudden understanding and disbelief. "You—you mean—" she gasped.

But before she could gather any of her staggering thoughts, however, a red haired centaur with a matching red beard, moved forward from behind the platoon of half-horse beasts at the nod of his chief, walking towards her slowly bearing a small bundle of…something in his brawny arms. When he finally came to a halt before her, he presented it to her, without preamble, leaving the young human woman to look down at the little bundle he cradled, her mouth hanging unceremoniously and unattractively open.

It was a child.

A little boy, fast asleep in a thick cloak of navy blue, the hood pulled up on his head, thatches of soft dark curls sticking out of the brim.

She gaped.

"Dear heavens!" she heard Minerva breathe beside her.

Dear heavens, indeed.

But Hermione could only stare down at the chid in growing confusion and shock. This child…if what Magorian said was true, was from the future._ Destined to rewrite the course of history._ From an analytical mind such as hers and from the fact that she had been a time-traveller herself, however briefly, to come face to face with one that was not of her time was simply extraordinary.

Looking up at the centurion chief, she asked the one question that was foremost in her mind. _"_But what does this have to do with me?"

This time, it was Firenze who answered, the smile that flitted across his thin lips wry, though his sapphire orbs remained solemn. "On the first hour of Ostra, when magic is most potent and the line between time and space is non-existent, a child fated to rewrite the course of history appeared, bearing your name and our colony's sigil."

_My…_Her stunned gaze snapped towards the man-beast so quickly her neck could have cracked. "_What_?"

In answer, the former Divination professor handed her a folded piece parchment, one that Hermione warily opened before promptly goggling at the sight of the neat scrawl across the crisp surface—_Hermione Jean Granger_, it read—a drawing of a bow and arrow surrounded by a circle of stars stamped in what looked to be _moss _below it—the centaur colony's insignia.

This was shaping out to become the strangest night of her life.

"I…but…" she struggled for words, unable to comprehend what this all meant. She'd never been so lost before.

Thankfully, Minerva was perceptive enough to take charge of the reins, sensing the inner turmoil that seemed to have tied her former pupil's tongue. "Who is he? Firenze, do you know?"

Said centaur shook his head, strands of his wild white hair swaying with his movements. "We don't know. We know naught else but what the stars have foretold."

"Take him," Magorian ordered, one large hand gesturing towards the sleeping child, even as his eyes drilled into Hermione whose own glazed gape remained fixed on the tiny tot, unable to tear her gaze away. "Our brethren's message is clear. We would bring this child to you, and now we must leave him into your care."

The dazed witch lifted her gaze towards the centaurs' leader, a denial on her tongue. "But…what do I do with him? I can't care for a child. I…I've work, responsibilities."

"He belongs with you," was the centaur's simple answer, matter-of-fact. His tone brooked no argument, and Hermione was forced to swallow a scathing retort. She knew how centaur colonies worked and how set they were in their ways. "You are fated to be together. I can sense your magic; it is calling for him."

"But—"

"Take him, Hermione Granger. No one else can care for him but you."

Powerless to argue with the imperious command, she did as she was bid, taking the child into her own arms carefully, unused as she was to holding a child, settling him more securely into her embrace. The little one looked no older than two or three years old, and she could hardly leave him—a human child—in their care. With a disconcerted frown, she ran a finger delicately down the child's cheek, feeling a curious warmth course through her, spreading from a single digit down to her entire body.

And then the hood of the cloak fell back.

The toddler's eyes fluttered open, beautiful pools of warm chocolate blinking sleepily up at her. "Mummy?"

She smiled down at the baby in her arms, a little rueful at the edges.

Yes, this had _officially_ become the strangest night of her life.

_**.:oOo:.**_


	3. Chapter Two - Little Boy Blue

_**Pitter-Patter of Little Feet**_

_**.:oOo:.**_

_**Author's Notes:**_ _Happy Christmas, everyone!_

_**.:oOo:.**_

_Chapter Two – Little Boy Blue_

_**.:oOo:.**_

The war with Voldemort and the years leading up to it had taught Hermione a great deal about herself and the people around her, despite the agony of having to go through those frightening times and its equally horrible aftermath. It had taught her about the importance of many things—of bravery and friendship, of love and family, of preparation and action, of sacrifice and loss. Of good and evil, and the grey areas in between. It had been a time filled with the sort of experiences that, at such an early age, had left undeniable marks and she had no doubt that it had made her who she was today.

The short years after the war had also had an equally defining hand at shaping the life that she led now. The travelling and the research that she did all over the world, meeting new and different people and magical creatures from vastly different backgrounds, learning from them and living with them; those had given her something more than just the knowledge she sought. It had given her a deeper understanding of how everything was interconnected, the threads of magic and nature weaving everything together into an intricate web that were both raw and beautiful.

Yes, affectively, intellectually and professionally, she had come a long way from being that naïve frizzy-haired youth with ambitions as high as the sky, her world contained within the pages of a book. Now, she was an accomplished, well-travelled young woman who looked at the world through the eyes of a seasoned scholar, more mature and better equipped as she was to take on any and every challenge or obstacle that may arise before her. Logically, she knew she was prepared for anything.

She was wrong.

Because, apparently, none of those experiences—not her education, not her daring (not to mention deadly) adventures at Hogwarts, not her fight against prejudice, not even from her international travels—had ever prepared her for _this_.

_Because _this_ was madness. _

Hermione stared down at the child screaming bloody murder in her arms, clinging to her as if for dear life and soaking her robes with fat salty tears, with something akin to horror and felt more panicked than she would ever care to admit. The shuddering sobs wracking his small frame against her gave her no clue as to what had set the poor baby off. All she knew was that, the instant the hood of the cloak fell off, revealing an unruly mess of dark raven's wing curls, the little boy had no sooner drowsily opened those deep russet orbs, blinking up at her as he pulled free from slumber's embrace before his lips pursed into a quivering pout. The tiniest whimper had been her only warning before pandemonium broke through the silence that had gripped the Entrance Hall.

_Pure and utter madness._

She had been so shocked to see glittering tears track down his chubby, flushed cheeks, the volume of his snivels gradually escalating into an all-out bawl—unhappy wails that bounced off the stone walls of the castle and reverberated across the hall in a ringing echo—that she hadn't even noticed Magorian and Firenze rear back in surprise, his little arms winding themselves around her neck as he buried his face, crumpled in abject misery, into her shoulder. Nor did she see the centaurs beat a hasty cantering retreat from the castle, leaving her and the headmistress to fend for themselves. She had instinctively wrapped her arms around the babe, bouncing him in her arms like she'd seen mothers do to their distressed children, a handing running up and down his back in what little comfort she could give.

She had absolutely no idea what she was doing.

Turning to Minerva, who thankfully had the presence of mine to cast a quick silencing charm around the hall, in complete bewilderment, her own brown eyes wide with alarm, she expressed her confusion in an urgent hiss. "Minerva, what—what's wrong with him? Why is he crying? Is he all right?"

"He's fine, dear," said the older woman knowledgably, a small smile flitting briefly across her thin lips. "I believe he's only throwing a benny for having his sleep interrupted."

Ah. _Wonderful_.

This was just what she needed, wasn't it? Honestly, when she'd wished for a distraction, she didn't mean a bealing, time-traveling child to drive her further to the edge of trepidation, as if she wasn't on her way there already, what with the unexplainable anxiety and her unstable magic…

_My magic…_Her eyes widened, immediately trying to reach inside her to feel out her magic's flow. The last thing she wanted was to unwittingly hurt the boy because she couldn't control it, but with worry and bafflement foremost in her mind, she was unable to concentrate enough to do so.

Fortunately, Minerva was only too happy to help her with this certain dilemma when the older witch gestured for her to hand the babe over. No doubt her former professor thought it would be more prudent if she took over for a bit when it became quite apparent that she was unbearably incompetent in this particular area, and Hermione couldn't agree more.

Stepping forward, the elder witch laid her own frail hand on the young boy's rumbling back, making gentle shushing noises to lure him into the cradle of her arms, whispering, "There, there, child. It's all right. Shh…shh…You're going to be just fine. There, there."

The little boy, however, was having none of it, his little arms tightening round her neck, his howls of anguish intensifying in his refusal to let go.

"It's all right, dear," Minerva soothed. "Come here. Auntie Minnie will take care of you. Come, now. There, there."

"No! No!" he cried through his tears, kicking his legs in the air each time Hermione tried to hand him off.

"Yes, it'll be just fine. Go to Auntie Minnie now, shh…" Hermione added anxiously, hoping her own soft murmurs would help, especially when he was slowly turning into an angry shade of red.

"No!" he wept stubbornly into her shoulder, rubbing his cheek against the soft satin of her robes, his short legs still kicking in the air in obvious protest. "_No!_ Mummy! No! _No_!"

Feeling utterly inept, Hermione had no choice but to continue holding onto him in the face of his teary wilfulness, rocking him in her arms and soothing him with soft whispers through her mounting confusion, his pitiful sobs reverberating wetly against her chest. In his distress, he had called for his mother—a woman who was obviously not there at the moment, and dear Merlin, what was she going to do if he started having a tantrum about _that_ too?

_Circe_, what had those centaurs been thinking? She was entirely out of her element!

When it became clear that the toddler showed no sign of settling down anytime soon, Minerva glanced up at her, a concerned frown creasing her age-weathered brow. "Perhaps, it would best if you took him home, Hermione. A bed might coax him into returning to sleep. Most children are more amendable in the morning when they've gotten a proper night's rest."

"Er, right," Hermione nodded her assent, more inclined to take her mentor's word for it than anything else, even as her own brows drew together in uncertainty and puzzlement. She had never had much experience with children before. Being an only child and having grown up with cousins close to her own age, there hadn't been much opportunity for her to do so. She had never been much of a babysitter, either; the summers when she had been home from school had mostly consisted of spending time with her parents or going on holiday with them. She had never had to interact with younger children at all.

_In any case_, she thought with a slight shake of her head, _there'll be time enough to puzzle this development out later_. First, she had to get the crying baby to her flat before he woke the whole of Hogwarts up.

Her frown dipped even more at the thought, the prospect of climbing seven flights of stairs to get to the Headmistress' Tower with a wailing toddler would surely prove counterproductive. She certainly hoped Minerva's silencing charm would last until then.

Thankfully, the Scottish witch was already a step ahead of her.

"Spotty," called the dignified headmistress and a dutiful house-elf immediately popped into existence before them, looking up at her with wide and eager grass green eyes. "Kindly take Miss Granger and the young one to her flat. I daresay we won't make it to my office without waking the very dead if we walked there." She cast a sidelong glance at her troubled companion and her weeping charge. "And the little one needs his sleep."

"Yes, Headmistress," the house-elf nodded dutifully.

Side-Along Apparation with a house-elf. _Of course._ That should certainly do the trick.

Hermione eyed the house-elf uneasily before reaching out to grasp the creature's small outstretched hand, suddenly feeling reluctant to leave the school on her own. She had never been alone with a child for a long period of time before; she very much doubted she'd have a better chance at placating the snivelling babe all by herself.

Some of her disinclination must have shown on her face, however, because Minerva, as perceptive as ever, gave her shoulder a gentle, reassuring squeeze. "I'll be right along with you in a few minutes, dear, don't worry," she sent the little boy a worried glance and ran a consoling hand down his quivering back, "I'm sure there's a lot you'd want to talk about."

"I'd appreciate that. Thank you, Minerva." Hermione smiled, a wave of relief washing over her, grateful.

"Well, we're not out of the woods, yet, as I'm sure you know. Now, go before that child cries himself hoarse." With a satisfied nod, the formidable woman turned to the waiting house-elf expectantly, "Spotty?"

"Of course, Headmistress."

And before the curly-haired witch could get another word out, the Entrance Hall faded out of view, only to be replaced, an instant later, by the comforting darkness of her new flat's living room, the silence that had clung to its peace only broken by the toddler's own shrill cries.

_**.:oOo:.**_

It took her a few more minutes to calm him down; a few minutes that consisted of rocking him in her tired arms, unaccustomed as they were to carrying a child's considerable weight, and cooing every calming word she could think of—from soft _There, there's, _to disjointed phrases of _It's all right's_ and _Don't cry's_ interpolated with _Shhh's_ and _Hush now's, _to even a short, desperate humming rendition of _Rock-A-Bye Baby_—but he eventually did, _thank Merlin_, his ear-splitting sobs finally reducing to occasional whimpers that had his pouting lips trembling. He still refused to let her go, though, even when she'd sat down on the bed with the intention of laying him there, which forced her to nestle him more comfortably against her instead, resting his head on her chest and settling his small structure across her lap, his little hands clutching tightly at the front of her robes.

All in all, it summed up into a very wearing experience.

Knackered, Hermione propped herself up on her plush pillows and contented herself with watching the top of the baby boy's wild tresses, swaying him to and fro from time to time, until he dozed off into the Land of Dreams…where she hope he'd stay until she figured out what exactly was going on and what to do about it. She leaned back wearily; intentionally letting her head hit the headboard. The centaurs hadn't been at all forthcoming on that part. Not that she blamed them—Divination had always been rather vague for her liking, preferring accuracy to ambiguity—but a little more information on who this boy was, why he was sent back in time, and why he'd been left to _her_, of all people, would have been welcome at least.

Moments later, when his soft rolling snores reached her ears and she was sure he was deep in his slumber, she placed him carefully on the mattress beside her, arranging his slight form at the centre, mindful of his thrutching so as not to wake him and thereby having to go through the entire ordeal all over again. She grimaced at the thought, even as she made sure to remove the thick woollen cloak that was wrapped around him, momentarily surprised when it revealed a pair of Muggle denims and a light blue shirt with a still cartoon depiction of a smiling bucktoothed, yellow dish sponge, tucking him in under her rumpled counterpane where he continued to sleep peacefully before backing off.

Hermione sighed in relief, looking down at him now, a small smile tugging at her reluctant lips. Despite the ruckus he was clearly capable of causing, she couldn't help but think of how angelic he looked; this unknown little boy from the undisclosed future, with his jet-black locks curling about cheeks that, though tear-stained, were round and rosy, his lips plump and slack, and his nose a pert button. She tilted her head to the side, her charmed smile still in place.

He really was quite a handsome child. In fact, he reminded her so much of…of…

_Hang on…_Sharp brown eyes narrowed in faint recognition, a curious sense of familiarity overcoming her. Somehow, his young visage reminded her of someone she _knew_, although she couldn't quite put her finger on whom just yet. _Hmm…now there was a thought._

A very plausible thought, in fact.

Considering she didn't really know how far into the future he was from—though she was fairly certain he hadn't been born at this time yet—there _was_ a very real possibility that she might know who his parents were. Ones who, apparently, knew her well enough to trust her implicitly. Why else would any responsible parent leave their child into the care of a complete stranger?

Sitting on her knees, the pucker on the bridge of her brows turned contemplative.

They wouldn't; it was that simple. No responsible parent would ever willingly leave their child's wellbeing and safety into the hands of a stranger, not even to an acquaintance, war heroine or not, and especially not when they were still so young and trusting.

And with knowledge to the future that could prove devastating…although she wasn't sure how reliable a two-year-old's information would be, but still.

_But then, that would beg the question of why they'd found it necessary to send him back in the first place._ She found it highly unlikely that he'd been sent back by accident. Not when her name had been so neatly written on that parchment. That had preparation written all over it.

And then there were the centaurs…

"Hermione?" a familiar voice floated through the bedroom, faint and muffled by the closed door. "Are you there? Hermione?"

_Minerva. _

Snapping out of her tumultuous thoughts, the said young woman stood, suddenly remembering her elderly friend's earlier promise to stop by and tiptoed her way out of the bedchamber with quick, light treads, intent on sharing her views on the matter with the older witch. She glanced over her shoulder at her peacefully dozing ward, making sure he was left undisturbed before closing the door behind her. Not a second later, she found the illustrious Transfiguration Mistress standing in the middle of her sitting room, a worried grimace wrinkling her aged visage, deepened even more by the long shadows brought about by the blazing firelight directly behind her.

"Has the poor boy fallen asleep?" Minerva asked as soon as she saw the worn witch approach her from the hallway to her left.

Hermione nodded tiredly. "Yes, thank Merlin. And not a second too soon, I should say," she plopped onto the plush sofa gracelessly, exhaustion making her forget her manners, and gestured for her visitor to take a seat. "My arms were just about to fall off their sockets, Minerva."

"I can imagine. Children are not exactly as light as we think they should be at that age. He looks no older than two or three years old," the headmistress agreed and, once seated, took the liberty of procuring some calming tea for the both of them with an efficient flick of her fir wand.

A porcelain tea set appeared on the elegant centre table before them. Pouring the soothing chamomile drink into delicate china, she handed a cup to her former student, who sent her a grateful smile, critically taking in the haggard look about her with perceptive green eyes all the while. Some of the girl's springy curls had fallen off their practical confinement and her formerly immaculate robes were rumpled and creased, no doubt due to the little boy's thrashing about. She sighed, sympathetic. This new development had certainly taken the accomplished young witch for a loop. She knew how Hermione liked to have everything to be in perfect order and she didn't take too keen on surprises, either. _The poor dear. _

Kindly, she set her tea down and prompted, "What do you make of it, Hermione? Any ideas?"

Silently, the young brunette mulled it over the steaming cup cradled securely between her hands. "I…I'm not sure what to think, Minerva. It's…it's a lot to take in in one night, to be honest. There are so many questions I want answered, but I'm not exactly sure where to start looking for them. The centaurs, the time-travelling, _the future_," she glanced at her companion, who nodded in understanding, and she steadied on. "Minerva, what could be so dire in the future for his parents to actually send him—a little boy, no, a baby—back in time?"

"Dire? What makes you say that?" Minerva looked troubled.

The recently returned witch shrugged. "It's the only plausible explanation I can think of. No parent would actually willingly do that unless—" she faltered, paling. _Unless it wasn't willingly_. She stared up at the woman in dawning horror. "_Sweet Merlin,_ you don't think he's—I mean, I—I assumed—Good God, you don't actually think he's been _kidnapped _and then sent here, do you, Minerva?"

"I suppose that it is possible," Minerva answered truthfully, if a bit neutrally, wanting the distraught witch to calm down. "But anything is at this point, Hermione, especially when we have nothing at all to go by. Perhaps we could ask him when he wakes in the morning. Surely, he'd be able to tell us how he'd come to be here, or at least, tell us what happened before her was," she added as an afterthought.

"Right, of course," Hermione breathed in deeply, visibly trying to steady herself. It wouldn't do to start jumping to conclusions. She should know better than that. Taking a sip from her tea, she smiled wearily up at her mentor, apologetic. "I'm sorry. I've been trying and failing to make sense of it all. It's just—I've had such a harrowing week, and then my magic—"

Her magic.

She stopped abruptly, realizing something for the first time since her return to her flat.

_It wasn't unstable anymore_.

In fact, aside from the obvious reactions to certain staggering events, the inexplicable feeling of wanting and the needful anxiety that accompanied it was gone, as if it had never been. It was odd.

_Really odd._

But before she could dwell on her peculiar, if a bit bipolar tendencies—which was a thought just short of alarming, really—a gentle, reassuring pat on her knee effectively pulled her out of her bewildered musings, towing her back to the more pressing conundrum at hand.

Minerva smiled down at her in a compassionate, maternal way that many others would be hard pressed to equate with the austere, indomitable woman. "It's all right, dear. It happens to the best of us," the Scottish educator assured her with a consoling nod. Then she steered the conversation back to grounds that would gain more progress, for even her rare considerate propensities were not enough to overshadow her practical demeanour. "Now, I propose we start to figure out the most basic question of all and then, perhaps, we can go from there: who is he?"

"Well," answered Hermione with a slight smile, grateful for the older female's steadying presence, and thought back on her previous conclusions. "I think I may know who his parents are. They might even be friends of mine."

"Oh?"

Nodding, the younger woman expanded. "When I put him to sleep, I thought he looked vaguely familiar. I can't remember who yet, but I feel like he looks quite similar to someone I know. He might be their son. And," she shrugged, reaching out to refill her cup, "they're Muggleborn. Or at least, one of his parents is."

Minerva's thinly arched eyebrows flew up, startled by such a deduction. "Muggleborn. What made you think so?"

In answer, Hermione couldn't help but smirk, her amusement polishing a shine through dark brown orbs that had been dulled by weariness. "Because of the Muggle clothing he's wearing underneath his cloak. _Spongebob Squarepants_."

"Beg pardon?" Minerva blinked. _Sponge—what?_

"_Spongebob Squarepants_. It's a Muggle cartoon show children—and Terry, apparently—watch on the telly."

"Ah. I see," was all the Half-blood witch could say to that, although the pinched expression on stern her countenance clearly said that she didn't. At all.

Hiding her amused smile behind the conjured teacup, the curly-haired femme continued, beginning to warm up to her supposition. "So, if in case the child is unable to tell us who his parents are, knowing that at least tells us that one of his parents is Muggleborn and would narrow down the list of people I plan on making on all the Muggleborns I know." Her brow creased, suddenly realising a hitch in her plan. "But I'm not sure how helpful it will be, as it could easily be their spouses that are Muggleborn. I'm not even sure who will get married to whom, yet." She paused, her eyes trailing towards the hearth as a new idea crossed her mind, her enthusiasm growing. "I could also make a list of people that have contact with magical creatures—perhaps some people on my team—considering their access to the centaurs, because surely it couldn't be that easy to have them agree to do what they did…least of all _willingly_. I could cross-reference each list and, hopefully, I'll be able to narrow it down enough to…Minerva?"

She trailed off, clocking the probing look Minerva sent her way followed by a noncommittal hum, those pensive jaded orbs settling her seated form with a piercing gleam that somehow filled the younger scholar with dread.

Finally, her former Head of House gave voice to a rather disturbing—at least in her opinion—thought. "Have you ever considered that he could be _your_ son?"

"_What?_"

Hogwart's head administrator merely clucked at her in a casual way that was so unlike the firm educator she and many others were so accustomed to. "Oh, come now, you can't tell me you haven't at least thought about it."

Hermione blinked. Blanched.

No, she hadn't. She hadn't _thought _about it that way at all, because the very idea was just…_preposterous!_

Really, why would she even try and send her own baby back in time, if indeed, the boy was her son? She'd never do that!

_Unless the situation proved so dire and she was desperate enough…_a little voice inside her betrayed.

_Furthermore_— stubbornly, she forged on.

_It was simply impossible._

"Is it really so impossible?" Once again, Minerva proved herself astute, inferring the gobsmacked look on Hermione's face correctly and responding accordingly. "You were a time-traveller yourself, once upon a time, or have you forgotten your little adventures with the Time-Turner?"

"Exactly! I know the rules and consequences interfering with time involves. _You_ made sure I remember every single one!" she reasoned, the lilt of her voice an odd desperation. Never mind the fact that she'd bent a few serious laws a time or two before, if the state of affairs proved to be warranted.

The truth was, in the face of Minerva's logic, she was grasping at straws.

But the headmistress carried on, perfectly content to ignore her denials in favour of her determination to air her thoughts out. "You're also Muggleborn, and if you so wanted, you know you're quite capable of getting through even the most secluded colony of centaurs." An eyebrow arched pointedly at this. "You've certainly found a way to foster relations between vampires and nymphs—circles that normally kept themselves away from wizardkind. Who's to say you won't be able to study with centaurs in the future?"

That was a very good point.

Hermione felt faint. No…just…no. It couldn't be…

It was impossible.

And yet, it wasn't.

She wanted to deny all of it, but even she could clearly see that every point the older woman delivered was perfectly logical. In fact, each and every one fell quite seamlessly into her own deductions. To top it off, and if she were to be really honest, she _had_ thought about approaching a colony of centaurs for her department's research. There wasn't any reason to think that she wouldn't succeed in a few years' time as she took her research on the origins of magic and its various manifestations quite seriously.

"Moreover," _as if her observations weren't damning enough_, Minerva pounded the last proverbial nail into her coffin with a perfectly rational argument. So rational it was just common sense, really. "Why would a parent capable of sending their child to the past entrust them to a friend's past self, when they could send it to their past selves, instead? Especially when their clear intention was, indeed, to change the future?"

Hermione was struck speechless. Her intellectual friend's stance was solid, she knew, but she found it difficult to wrap her head around.

A son…_Her son._

It couldn't be.

"Of course, I could be wrong. Like I said, anything is possible at this point when all we have to go by is Muggle clothing and _Square Spongepants_."

_But you could also be right._ She swallowed, found her throat dry. It was entirely possible. _Entirely too possible_. Logic, her favourite tool of deduction, supported it, in fact.

Clinically, she should probably accept it, view it as the leading information it was, even if it was still a hypothesis. As a scholar, a researcher and a war veteran, she had learned to never shy away from facts or any data that could prove vital to her goals. As it was, however, she wasn't sure what to feel about it. Having a child—from the future or not—was not something she'd thought about often, and if she did, it was but a fleeting thought. That wasn't to say that she didn't fancy herself marrying one day, of course. But it was day that was, to her, dreamlike, intangible and far, far into the future…

Where the little boy was from…

_Ugh._ Her head hurt, one that lasted long after Minerva had left, a sympathetic smile lingering on her thin lips, and a promise to check on her soon on her tongue. The all too possible likelihood that she could be that little boy's mother was a debilitating pulse against her temples, pounding mercilessly between her eyes and rendering her awake even when the fire at the hearth had died down to glowing embers and the first light of day trickled through her curtains, chasing the darkness and the shadows holding its court away with cheery golden hues.

Still, if she continued along Minerva's vein, she would need indisputable proof.

_Like a DNA test at St. Mungo's._

Quick and irrefutable.

_**.:oOo:.**_

She awoke to the strangest noise she'd ever heard: an indiscernible sound that was like a cross between a growl and a yowl, a kind of desperation hidden in its animalistic shrillness that no human could ever hope to duplicate it. Frowning, she blinked blearily up at the cream yellow ceiling, squinting sleep glazed eyes against the brightness of her room, the foggy tendrils of much needed slumber still clouding her usually sharp mind. Her eyes were heavy and raw and crusted with sleep's dust. Her mouth was as dry as a desert and her limbs felt so leaden, she'd probably sink if she was ever cast to the sea.

She also had an awful crick in her neck.

_Lovely._

It was an unpleasant way to wake up, to be sure. Unfortunately, it was also not the first time she'd greeted the morning like this, nor was it likely to be her last.

With a reluctant yawn, she raised her arms above her head and stretched, straining the past few hours of inertia out of her sleep-numbed muscles. Groggily, she looked around her, for the first time noticing her familiar yet surprising surroundings, the well-oiled cogs in her brain beginning to churn, finally.

As it turned out, she wasn't in her bedroom, as she'd initially thought she was, and she wasn't in her study either, as she'd often found herself in after she'd fallen asleep working on her research, a constant effort that only rewarded her with stiff muscles every time. Instead she found herself in her sitting room, lying awkwardly on the sofa, the throw pillows positioned to decorate and invite visitors effectively evicted to the hardwood floor. As a creature of habit, Hermione made it a point never to sleep in her living room. So, why then, was she there, stuffed inelegantly across the settee?

Before she could deliberate on her bizarre choice of sleeping arrangements, however, that strange yowling growl echoed across her flat again, followed by the discordant cacophony of clanging kitchenware.

_What on earth? _Curious, she pulled herself up from the supine position she was in, her trudging step gaining ground when she heard an unmistakably loud crash reverberating through her flat's kitchen, the shrieking squalls turning into desperate whinging mews, this time sounding distinctly like a cat. Her cat.

"Crookshanks?" Hermione called, her brow furrowing worriedly, just as she rounded the door to the kitchen. "Crooks? What—_Merlin_!" She stopped midstride, a horrified gasp escaping her as her mouth promptly dropped open in shock, the astonished expression on her face frozen in place in the face of such bedlam.

Because, right there, in her newly furbished kitchen was a sight that was both wholly unexpected and appalling.

The little boy, covered all over with what looked like flour, with egg yolks dripping from his hair, his Muggle t-shirt soaked with what looked to be milk, judging from the upturned milk bottles dangling from the open icebox, and liberally doused with chocolate syrup, beamed brightly_ down_ at her from where he was_ floating_ in thin air in the middle of the room, an equally suspended and equally messy Crookshanks in his death grip. "Mummy!" he squealed, innocent delight radiating from him in waves, causing pools of warm hazel to glimmer in the sunlight streaming through the kitchen's windows. "I found a kitty, Mummy!"

_Mummy_…

And just like that, the unbelievable events from the night before, or, well, earlier that day, came flooding back to her in an unpleasant barrage of memories, nauseating in its speed and content. The little boy, the centaurs, Minerva—

_He called me Mummy_.

"_Have you ever considered that he could be _your_ son?"_

She looked up at him, pale and horrified.

_He called me Mummy._

"Can I keep him, Mummy?" he floated towards her, his childish, food-streaked visage eager, Crookshanks struggling in vain—and possibly suffocating—in his arms.

_Sweet Merlin, I have a son!_

Or will have one.

God, she was going to be sick.

_**.:oOo:.**_


End file.
